Notes
by GGJ5
Summary: Cold Russian winters, elaborate imperial parties, depravity amongst the commoners, wicked political schemes, and an opera haunted by a madman that no one can seem to catch... a criminal of the worst kind: a madman in love. Solely Leroux based.
1. Chapter 1

_A.N.: Yes, the names are in Russian. 'Cause Russian rocks. I'm not going to tell you who represents who, because I want the characters themselves to tell you that. I hope y'all enjoy. Reviews equal love. And possibly king cake._

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"I cannot _believe_ you won't rip up the contract of that Spanish twit!" groaned Fedósiv, his wild greying brow wrinkled in frustration.

"Are you _blind_?" Mihailov chided his friend and new co-manager. "Besides, the public adores Carlotta! We couldn't risk that loss. And you cannot actually deny her talent."

"The public would love her more if she was Russian," came his partner's muttered response. Fedósiv was a proud man in every way: proud of everything from his nation to his wardrobe. Having such an acclaimed prima donna from Spain hardly rested well with him. "The first thing I shall do," he added to his young friend, "as new manager of the Mariinsky Opera is to convince you of a little patriotism!"

"Isn't that what the Chastolov brothers are for?" questioned Mihailov, running a hand through his chaotic dark hair. Were it not for his serious face, Fedósiv would have thought him joking. The question paused both men, on their way to the grand farewell banquet for their predecessors. Fedósiv sighed, wiping moisture from his brow. _It's too blasted hot for an evening in September, _he thought, then answered Mihailov. "What do the Chastolov brothers have to do with patriotism?"

"Why, isn't it obvious, Fedósiv? Filipp Chastolov is one of those senators, and close to the tsar. And his brother, of course, just 'voted' in. How do you like that?"

Fedósiv waved off his comrade's comment. "Yes, yes, it's all about money, still, isn't it? Perhaps his brother's financial advantage was simply that: an advantage. Rodion Chastolov, though, seems like a good man to me."

Mihailov's face broke into a sharp grin. "Well, we shall see tonight at the gala!"

The pair continued on with excited small talk as they made their way up the grand steps in th foyer, nearing the ballet girls' floor (which must be passed to reach the floor of the great banquet). Mihailov was elated; to be head of such a magnificent establishment at his age was simply phenomenal in his mind. He'd established his name in the music and entertainment industries early on as an able musician, but this! This would surely give his name credit! He might even be able to expose a little of the score he'd composed...

Fedósiv, himself nearing uncomfortably close to the retirement age, met Mihailov through a series of fortunate events and was entirely reliant upon his musical knowledge now, as Fedósiv had none. He would have to be sure to stay in Mihailov's good graces, lest Mihailov show him as the fool.

Several shrill shrieks stabbed the men's eardrums, killing their bliss. Presently, the pair saw dozens of frantic young women-- the dancers-- run sporadically across and down the hall, into the famed ballerina Sidorova's room, shutting the door solidly behind them. The men looked at each other, shrugged, and continued on.

Inside the dancer's room, chaos ensued. Multiple high-pitched voices fought against each other to tell their tales:

"And I saw it reach out for me!"

"--had on that hat--"

"only in the shadows, when--"

And "...Angry for the managers--"

"hates when anyone--"

Then, "blood on the floor!" and "crawling up the wall! Did you see?"

The volume threatened to dismantle the place, increasing in fervor until at last the esteemed ballerina shouted above the rest, "Oh, do be quiet!" The girls presently silenced, stunned momentarily by the unusual loudness of the lady Sidorova, who stood before them ans demanded an explanation from them. "I do hope you haven't been telling each other ghost stories again," she chided knowingly.

The girls immediately answered in the negative, assuring her of nothing of the sort.

One little girl however, no more than fifteen, shook terribly, her dark face drained of all color, and Sidorova noticed this. She parted through the sea of girls, and walking up to the young lady, brushed the girl's blonde locks out of her wet face. "What is the matter, little Sonya?"

Sonya shook even more, swayed, as if fighting a fainting spell. Sidorova led her to a chair and repeated the question, her back to the others. Sonya's eyes wide and white, she stumbled for a moment over her words and then blurted, "_It's the phantom!_"

Sidorova's knees nearly buckled, but she reminded herself to be strong for the girls, who were letting out all sorts of vulgar phrases and variants of, "Sofia Yoselfna will doom us all!", and a few shrieked, "Don't speak of it! You'll call it!"

Sidorova turned to them, eyes narrowed in irritation. "Sonya has nothing to do with your wild imaginations and there is no phantom in this opera house! Now silence!"

The girls became silent once more, yes, but clearly not because of anything Sidorova said. They were listening for something. Sidorova topped to listen, too. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Sidorova heard a strange sound, like that of something silk or satin billowing against a strong wind. It neared the door; nearer, nearer, and nearer it came, and then... nothing.

"He's there!" blurted the alabaster-skinned Marya Isidornva. Another girl jerked her black hair hard to silence her, and Marya whimpered. The sound did not resume, and Sidorova, to comfort the girls, reached for the doorknob.

"No! shrieked Marya Isidornva again, only to receive another frightened tug on her hair.

Sidorova swallowed hard and thrust her head out the door. She swept her eyes up and down the hall, and perhaps if she'd not been in such haste, she would have seen the two pinpricks of yellow staring at her from the far end of the corridor. But she soon slammed the door shut, leaning against it (for now it was she who felt faint). "Nothing," she muttered. "I see nothing out there, girls."

"He was there!" shouted Marya, smashing the foot of the girl who held her hair. "We saw him, didn't we?" Marya's eyes searched for Sofia Yosefna's.

The blonde nodded violently in affirmation. "It-it had th-the s-s-skull a-and every--thing!"

Sidorova heard the echoes of confirmation, and recalled the rumors of the phantom and its skull. She thought of the friendly stagehand, Yosef Bogolubov, and his lively tales of the Mariinsky Opera's local legend.

"He is no human, nor was he ever," Bogolubov would narrate. "He has no name, no face, no soul. When he wishes to make himself visible, his ghost possesses a skeleton he stole from its grave and parades around, showing off his terrible yellow skull. He hides the rest of the bones under the very suit the man was buried in!"

Another tale, Sidorova knew was contradictory, was that the phantom was the spirit of a man who died in a fire of the house that used to exist on the property of the Opera. The contractors gave him large sums of money to leave, but he continually refused. They resorted to burning down his home, and he was alive still inside of it! Since then, his flaming head can sometimes be seen in the cellars, seeking revenge. Ironically, Sidorova could not remember hearing of the fire head until a fireman had a bad experience in the cellar...

Sidorova let out a long sigh. "The skull of Yosef Bogolubov's tale?"

The girls all confirmed her question. Marya blurted, "Yes, and he would do well to hold his tongue!"

"Marsha!" the girls responded, shocked at her sharp words.

Marya's black eyes turned to eggs when she realized she'd spoken too much. "I- I shouldn't- my- my ma- Well-- It's what Mama says!"

"And what does Mama Gina say about the phantom?" begged the girls.

Marya looked proud to be the star of the hour, though she did well to hide this behind her genuine fear of the phantom. "Mama says the phantom doesn't like to be talked about. And he's a _he_, not an _it_. He hates to be called an _it_!"

All the talk of ghosts was overwhelming Sidorova, who feared forgetting her farewell speech for the now-former managers more than anything else. She quickly began to usher the frightened girls out her room, telling them, "Enough of these spirits; tonight we shall put on bright faces for our managers, both old and new. Understand?"

Just as the last ballet girl fluttered into the hall, a stocky, blustery woman trampled frantically into the corridor. It was Anna Ivanova, the mother of little Sofia Ivanova. "He's dead!" she cried, her face red from the running.

The girls all screamed again, breaking into chaos once more. Sidorova was forced to repeat her question to Ivanova several times, until she heard and answered, "The stagehand! Yosef Bogolubov!"

The girls held each other, screaming louder through their tears. Marya Ivanovna Gina looked very ill. "It's the phantom," she murmured, before falling to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Sidorova and the mother of little Sonya tried their greatest to corral the whimpering, edgy girls and guide them semi-peacefully to the hall where they would wish farewell to their good managers, and greet their new ones with synthetic smiles. Harsh, sharp orders were whispered to the pink little mice to silence their laments at least for a while, so as not to worry their management on such a day of delight. The girls agreed most assuredly to their superiors, however frazzled they may have been at the moment-- though a promise was quickly made between the young ones (even if by eye contact only) that this murdering phantom must be discussed before bed tonight. And after all, wasn't it Marya Isidornva herself who said the phantom hated to be mentioned? And Yosef, they all knew, loved to tell the tale of his greatest fear, his greatest triumph. A new thought then struck the clan simultaneously: Marya spoke of him. Would she fall next?

The thought of that moppish black hair halfway hiding the bulging eyes of the hanged Marya terrified Sonya greatly, and she felt an incomprehensible urge to rush back to the ballet dormitories and quiver alone in the safety of her cot; possibly she might try to prepare something to ward off such wickedness of the undead world. A potion, a fume, anything to keep away the sinful spirits from below the opera house! She had never stopped running after hearing the words of doom fly from Anna Ivanova's mouth, though for a time she followed the prattling youth to the proper destination. Now she separated herself, unseen in the hubbub, and fled toward the right side, to the long, sloping corridor leading to the little apartments for the girls to sleep in piles. Sonya had difficulty finding her way now, though this was her home for the most part, as it was terribly deprived of illumination save for the rare dim candelabra alongside the wall every few paces, which hardly proved useful in such a rush as hers, and streaks of blonde loosed from the wilting bun atop her head attacked her vision when the light struck. The lightly decorated walls, only lined with darkened mirrors and overly ornate frames, echoed her scuttling feet in a mockery of a second being in her midst. Almost there, she repeated inside of her throbbing brain. Almost there, and then to save Marya!

In her quick and foolish blindness, Sonya's flying feet crashed her into a black tower, causing her to stumble backward in shock, her breath catching midway out her mouth. The tower reached to keep her standing, held her upward, toward him—for yes, it was a him, she could tell, though she saw little but the greenish eyes in the obscurity. A scream was forming in her throat the second she realized this, and it must have been expected by her captor, as she felt his large, calloused hand clamp tight over her mouth. He spoke to her, close to her ear, in words as stern as iron; however, a voice as hushed as audibly possible. "Do not go this way tonight! Turn around, bird. Turn around and fly away!"

Sonya, eyes wide open but craving to be shut, nodded as much as she could through the man's vice grip. She hardly saw him, but knew who he must be. _Persdski!_ she thought. _The Persian man!_ A man who powered and controlled the phantom, most assuredly. A feared man for this very reason, he was. True to her silent word, when the Persdski released her free, she fled from the corridor, away, away, and into the light of the central foyer.

The Persian man sighed, listening to the fading sound of two leathery soles gliding quickly with the floor. He did not wait to see if she fled completely, or if she would return. He was confidant she was certain to stay away tonight. And good for her! Another life spared, then. The ghost was in a mood tonight, the Persdski knew dismally. And what a frightful mood!

He traversed the maze, the labyrinth leading from the ballet dormitories obscurely enough to the managers' realm. The phantom had warned him of this path tonight, that though he would be unseen, it was the path he would take. And though hardly ever ordered by the ghost, the foreigner felt a great responsibility to be sure no one other than he crossed the phantom's path tonight.

The light was better here, closer to the managers' offices. He strode quickly to the heavy wooden door, locked tight for protection, framed oddly enough by two circular ornate mirrors wreathed in a waving gold, shining oddly in the contrasting orange gaseous lights. He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors when he reversed his patrolling route: a withering and leathery dark face, contrasting pointedly in color with that of his more recent neighbors; fervent green eyes peering back at him from beneath thin, graying brows. And what else was that the mirror showed in such shadow? _Oh, nothing anymore…_

In the darkness of the office, happily forgotten for a day, a thin, ghostly hand stretched its way out through the panels of the floor. It reached up, out, delicately holding something papery between its long, dead fingers. Farther it stretched until it could toss its message onto the center desk, and free of its burden, the hand vanished from the world.


	3. Chapter 3

The petite performer winced as she pulled the brush through a difficult section of her jungle of hair; the nervousness of the evening added to the jerking movements. The room was cold, and a draft seemed to come in from some undisclosed place. Kristina Datsyuka suppressed a shiver. She leaned into the mirror; squinted to better examine herself in the gold glow from the one gas light at the far end of the room. With a small sigh, she forced back the debatably blonde strands that refused to remain in the up-do on which Lizaveta had worked so tediously. She tilted her head and moved in even closer to the reflection; either the lighting or the emerald gown she wore made appear her March blue eyes as green as sea foam, something which displeased her greatly. Everyone had brown or green eyes. Kristina was hardly content with being an "everyone". She was her own woman, and no one, she told herself often, could imagine she could liken to Kristina now. Kristina's right cheek slowly met with the coolness of the glass as her eyes shut on themselves. Her ear was pinned flat to the mirror, listening, waiting…

Three loud thuds pounded in her ears, sending crude vibrations throughout her skull. She jerked her head away and glared at the intruder behind the hard oak door. There was nothing for which to listen now.

With a brisk walk and rustling skirts, Kristina pulled down the gilded handle and heaved the door from its frame. At the sight of the trespasser behind it, Kristina bit her tongue and began to close the door again.

A strong, firm arm reacted quickly, locking the door in its open position. The dark, chiseled face of Alexei Valerian hooked the eyes of Kristina like a chain. Typically expressionless, Alexei spoke evenly through the inward strain of bitterness, "Are most of the women here greeting their relations in this manner now? I'm terribly behind on the times, as is expected of me."

Giving up on her hold on the handle, Kristina walked away from him and sat in front of the mirror again, with an air of defiance. "That's exactly why I wanted that door closed again, Alyosha."

In a few long strides, Alexei breeched the doorway and stood before his adoptive sister, the soft student's hands hiding hers on their rests. His pensive brown eyes below a sculpture's brows examined her from above, registering and analyzing her body language, assessing his competition. Having grown up alongside her since Kristina and her father came to live with his family when he was still learning to print, Alexei knew her through and through, and knew the signs of Kristina's moods. _Nervous, clearly,_ he noted._ But also perturbed and, what, wary, perchance? Anxious?_ He watched the little blue fireflies in her eyes dart about the walls of the room, as if searching for a spy on their meeting. He watched as her hands squirmed beneath his own, digging their heels into the wood of the armrests. The fleshy contact began to irk him and he thrust his hands into his pockets. "Krista," he began, taking off his hat and briefly examining its wear. "I implore a final time, Krista: _do not perform tonight._ Do not--"

"Aha!" Kristina jumped at the command, knocking Alexei off balance momentarily. "Aha!" She pointed accusingly as she encircled him. "It's always going to be about this, isn't it, Alexei? Never about Krista the person anymore, but only Krista the _siren_!" With this last self-accusation, Kristina turned to the wall-length mirror behind her and, forehead to the glass, screwed up her face in silent tears.

Alexei could stand the situation no longer. Empathy tried to knock itself out if its locked box, but instead a bitter hostility escaped. He whipped her away from the mirror by way of her shoulders and forcing her eyes to meet his, he spoke crisply and slowly, so that it would be impossible to misconstrue his meaning. "I do not want to see you on that stage at any time, Kristina Fomanva Datsyuka. I do not want to hear your voice from that stage, Kristina Fomanva Datsyuka. And I will be watching. Forever. Until you leave this place, Kristina, I will be watching. And the first time you set your foot on that stage, you will no longer have a home with the Valerians. I can make certain of that."

Kristina, back meeting tightly with the long mirror, tried desperately to hide the terrible thoughts her brother had just planted in her mind. Tear ducts welled with the thoughts of loosing her home with her sweet, feathery Mama Valeriána and her son that Kristina had quickly grown to love as if he were her natural sibling. The heart pounded against her chest with thoughts of leaving to find home on her own, with who knows what kind of people living in the flat above her. And how would she afford rent? What else would she have to resort to doing? A wave of yellow flashed before her eyes.

Kristina shoved away the thought, only for it to be replaced with a vison of Mama Valeriána lying terribly, deathly pale and withered in her yellowed old bed sheets and there stood Kristina, above her, craving to hold her hand as her voice faded. In her mind's eye, Kristina reached out toward the shriveled and blue-lined hand only to receive a spreading look of fear in Mama's sunken and watery eyes. She began to shrink more into her bed sheets, breathing unhealthily and making sounds that were her chords years younger and in semi-decent condition would have been ugly shrieks. Kristina retracted her hand and clasped it to her chest. Quivering herself, Kristina asked with panic, "Mama, Mama, what's wrong? Don't you want me here with you? Didn't you call for your little Krista?" And in her mind Mama answered only coldly, surely, "I don't know a little Krista, and I don't know you." And in a rush of emotions, Kristina searched for help, repeating, "Yes, yes, you must know me! You must remember me!" as she looked up to the doorway. And there was Alexei, arms folded, chocolate hair falling slightly over his face, quite content and leaning against the paint-worn frame. His expressionless face slowed and morphed into a pleased and wicked grin, and he laughed at her, "I told you that I would make certain. I told you, Krista."

Overwhelmed with her imagination, she refused to hide her fears any longer. Her eyes now open and focused on Alexei, whose exasperated and heated face contrasted the wicked smile in her dream. He turned from her, obviously disgusted, and began to walk away, until a pair of small, terrified hands clasped at the back of his thinning jacket. He paused, still with his back to her. "Alyosha," she forced. "Alyosha, I-- what do you mean, 'no home'?"

Alexei cocked his head so that Kristina was sideways in his vision. Resentment smoldered into anger behind the stoic brown eyes. His fingers gripped the weak hat in his right hand as he let her panicked face register in his mind. She was much prettier when she was angry with him, he noted. And he loathed it. His voice more of a growl than speech, Alexei explained himself in quick fervor: "I am kin of _no_ opera wench! _Doh svidanya._" With that, he thrust on the balding felt hat and fled from her quarters, deliberately slamming the heavy door behind him.

At rather a trot, Alexei flew from the opera house as if its air were poison to his lungs. He even heaved and fumed as such until he was well beyond the grounds of the place. He did not realize it, but he was muttering the entire time he dodged the passers-by until reaching his bench at the end of the Nevsky Prospect by the Palace Square. Collalpsing with weary on the splintery wood, Alexei let drop his face into his palms._ Too hot_, he thought, moving to massage his temples. How stupid it all was, how useless! He scowled at himself. _And if she had to, she'd take a yellow ticket for you, Alexei. She'd do it! Oh, God, I can't let her go so low. I won't! Not for your behalf, Alexei. No one will resort to such things on my behalf! She will not extort herself for me. I forbid it! Oh, God…what can I do?_

Eager for distraction, Alexei sunk a hand into the nearby stack of papers and ripped out yesterday's issue of _Era_. He'd missed the issue yesterday, and had to catch up quickly. News happens fast, and every day the _Era_ had another one of those fascinating scriptures in it. He whipped open the paper to the far back where the letters to the editor lived. Scanning the articles, he did not stop until he saw the phrase he searched for: Ph. of the O. Seeing the new letter from his favorite critic, a rush of exhilaration swept through the embittered Alexei as he dug in his pocket for the little notebook and lead he kept. Now set to record the letter, Alexei let himself read and absorb the content:

_Angels sing tonight  
Unless the chord of death sounds  
No one hears her screams_

_-Ph. of the O._

"Ah," he mused aloud. "A death threat haiku. Genius man…" Copying down the message, Alexei pushed the paper away and searched the ransacked pile for today's _Era_. Having succeeded in locating it, Alexei repeated his ritual. Today's message from Ph. of the O. read:

_Five thousand men away they sail today  
To reach the land of their eternal hope  
But lo! Their sails are tattered and give way.  
For heaven these men should have never groped._

_Ten thousand men come with their lady wives  
For here they see who has the richest cup.  
For in their souls a darkness will arise  
And all their eyes will heavenward look up_

_For lo! What falls now from the sky above?  
Five thousand stars upon their heads come down.  
For in the breath of music, hate, and love  
So all shall fall so she may be renowned._

_Twenty thousand then of you I require  
Or in this state you both shall make your pyre._

_Give us the Angel,  
-Ph. of the O._

Scribbling down the cipher word for word, Alexei hastily thrust the notebook back into his pocket and left his bench befuddled and amused. Retracing his trek up the Nevsky Prospect, he eyed the Palace Square and spat in disgust. Everything the tsar and his empire represented was a curse, surely! _There is no freedom,_ Alexei thought. _We are all serfs to you, Nikolai. And that is all we remain._

Alexei brushed against the door of his flat and tossed the poor excuses for a hat and jacket inside. He sat on the hard, thin sofa and, breathing in the grim and yellow air, squinted through the dim light at his handwritten copy of the notes. He tore out a clean page, attempting to analyze the poems piece by piece to understand his subject. He began to write _his_ letter:

_Regarding the letters from Ph. of the O.:_

_Your threats are hardly veiled. If you continue such obvious rants, whatever goal you desire to achieve shall indeed be nullified immediately. You are a very intelligent man, clearly, and had better put your mind to better use quickly. The authorities which should be rendered will strike out against you, and you will be found wanting. If I may advise you, Ph., refrain from such direct attacks and continue your force against the enemy with another who truly deserves your time. You know whom I mean, as mentioned before. Contact is simple, Ph. He waits. He knows._

_-A. R. V._


	4. Chapter 4

Not two miles from the elegant theater, a particularly luscious abode buzzed and brimmed with preparations for the evening's showing of _Кrasота and Zhivотnоyеh_, which would end with a farewell party to which, as grand patrons, the two Chastolov brothers were invited. Filipp Filippovitch Chastolov, as a happily long-established senator and actually having had conversations with the Tsar in his past, greatly relished the opportunity to appear at such an auspicious occasion, and took great care of the appearance of both himself and his younger brother. Appearance was especially crucial this evening, as this would be Rodion's first public event since his election into the Senate.  
Filipp donned the raven-black top hat with a grimace of disdain and strode into his brother Rodion's quarters. His eyes falling upon the golden head bent over his left shoe, Filipp's eyebrow unconsciously arched in bewilderment.

Completely absorbed in his shoe, Rodion Chastolov noticed not the presence of another, and so Filipp gave a warm chuckle at the sight before him; Rodion's eyes broke from his footwear and jovially met his brother's.

"What _are_ you doing, Rodya?" burst Filipp with great pleasure, noticing Rodion's unnatural impeccability of the evening.

Rodion responded with a beam, "Shining my shoes, of course. You should try it sometime…"

And indeed, with a quick glance in the light of the lamp, Filipp saw the ridiculously luminous sheen of a black boot. Filipp, in turn, felt a little bubble of pride added to his already flowing cauldron of esteem. "So, then," he said, handing a hat quite like his own to his brother. "You've decided to finally accept the full measure of the great post I've helped you to gain?"

Rodion scoffed, though he smiled still. "Fillip, friend, it's not time to give a speech… and…" He looked down at the top hat in his hands. "And what God-awful piece of Euro-centricity is this?"

"I know, I know… don't ask me what they see in these…" He thrust a hand toward his own head. "But it's not my idea. The legislature as a whole, Rodya, from the word of the Tsar, is attempting to grasp a little more of a Western trend… the theory is that their economies and governments are more stable because of their culture, and so we're adopting a bit of theirs… Ridiculous, yes, but what can a man do?"

Filipp need not explain, as Rodion knew well and good that whatever the Tsar says is law, whether Senate approved or not. However, Rodion loathed the idea of wearing the travesty; for one, it seemed a near betrayal to his new position as a representative of Russia (not France), and for another, what if she should spot him?

"Filipp," he began, almost cautiously. "The performance tonight, you are certain this is the correct cast?"

"Who, Dmitri Svilgrogov, Kristina Datyuska—"

"Yes, yes, is that it?"

"Of course, but—"

"I simply want to know I am getting my money's worth," Rodion shrugged off, stood, and reflected the same disdainful look as Filipp at the feeling of the Western hat.

"Never knew you to be so frugal, or so interested in operatic performances." Rodion noted the wink in Filipp's comment and let it pass unanswered.

"Come, Filipp, you hardly want to keep the carriage waiting much longer."

And the cast certainly did meet Rodion Chastolov's newfound standards. In their box Filipp watched as his b******ro**ther's face illuminated at the image of Krasoma weeping over the body of the mutilated Zhivотnоyеh, her brilliant golden hair covering him in mourning. He watched as Krasoma's voice soared as she pleaded with God to revive the monster she'd come to adore, and Rodion's eyes shone at the sound. He watched with elation as his brother became wrapped up in the beauty of the reunion of the Zhivotnoyeh, now made whole again, and Krasoma as they were wed before them all, with tremendous songs of jubilation and triumph.

After the final closing of the curtain, the Chastolovs immediately left their box and flew behind the chaotic, busy stage (though each with distinctly different motives). Filipp searched the short, curl-filled heads for the one of Sidorova, with whom he intended to see at the party after the show, and upon finding her, the two disappeared in some corner or another. Rodion was oblivious to this, as his eyes only searched for the pretty blonde actress, the Krasoma of the evening. Here is what he had been hoping for: a chance to be even in the same vicinity, he thought, would be enough, but now he wanted so much to hear her voice addressed to him.

One of few blondes in the scramble of backstage bedlam, Kristina Datyuska was easier to spot than most, and Rodion quickly weaved his way to her. Kristina's back was turned from him, and the girls that surrounded her were making variations to her hair and wardrobe, presumably for a fitting appearance at the celebration momentarily. He walked up to her, and, giving a polite "Pardon me, misses," tapped Kristina once on the shoulder. The surrounding girls beamed and twittered, then motioned for Kristina to turn; a Senator was giving her attention and she had better answer!

Kristina turned around, her lavish stage dress trailing dramatically behind her, and seeing a respectable gentleman waiting for her, smiled brilliantly. In a moment her sapphire eyes registered the face of the man before her, though, and suddenly her face contorted into great pain, as if someone were wrenching a long knife into her. Her throat emitted noises as if she was choking, and she fell backward into the girls behind her. _"Go away!"_ he heard her scream through her tears and nearly was kicked over by her flailing feet. "For God's sake,**__**** go away!**"


End file.
